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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27922642">Deck The Halls</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/insistentbass/pseuds/insistentbass'>insistentbass</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Festive Flings [4]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sherlock (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Christmas Dinner, Christmas Fluff, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Home, M/M, Sussex</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 20:21:23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,103</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27922642</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/insistentbass/pseuds/insistentbass</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>'When Sherlock had first broached the subject of Christmas dinner, John had almost choked on his tea when the man said he wanted to cook.'</p><p>Set a good few years into the future. Rosie is grown and coming home for Christmas in Sussex.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Sherlock Holmes/John Watson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Festive Flings [4]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2042989</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>34</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>2020 Advent Ficlet Challenge</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Deck The Halls</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is just pure fluff. No angst. I know, who am I even?? (Old is what I am)</p><p>Also I don't know why I'm doing a ficlet challenge when I can't produce anything under 1000 words any more. I apologise.</p><p>B x</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“This is – incredible”</p><p>John’s eyes scan the kitchen, comically wide and disbelieving at the sight in front of him. Dishes and utensils fill every possible space, each ring on the hob heats a pot, bubbling away and creating the most delicious smells. There’s a large goose roasting in the oven, the skin crisping away under golden light. Cranberry sauce sits in a delicately painted bowl, and even that looks homemade. And there’s Sherlock, in a red apron, icing the top of a chocolate log with white zig zags.</p><p>“Sherlock, how –“</p><p>John places the sack of booze he’d been carrying onto the floor, the only space available to him. All day Sherlock has kept him out of the kitchen, shooing him away every time he got within a few feet of the door. Their cottage isn’t exactly small, but John had taken to spending most of the morning outside anyway, putting up last minute Christmas lights above the door and avoiding his tense partner. Only now was he allowed to see behind the velvet curtain, after providing the bottles of alcohol Sherlock had sent him out to get.</p><p>When Sherlock had first broached the subject of Christmas dinner, John had almost choked on his tea when the man said he wanted to cook. Never in their many, many years together, had Sherlock ever made so much as a slice of toast. John had wanted to protest – Rosie was coming back from art college, and he wanted everything to be perfect. Sherlock had accused him of genuine hysteria when he had come back from the village market with two wreaths and several mini fir trees. ‘Decking the halls’ wasn’t something John normally indulged in, but this year felt different. It needed to be special. It needed to not end in a small house fire. The lack of trust he had in Sherlock’s culinary skills was warranted, but those big doe eyes were more persuasive than he liked to admit, lips ghosting his own even more so. John had agreed eventually, secretly alerting their closest neighbour Mrs Tompkins, that they may be in need of some emergency turkey on the big day.</p><p>“You’ve been able to cook, this entire time, and you never said anything?”</p><p>With a finesse he simply shouldn’t have, Sherlock finishes his icing job and puts the piping bag on the table, standing back to admire his work.</p><p>“Don’t be ridiculous, John” He says, a small smile creeping on his lips, obviously happy with his efforts. “I watched some YouTube”</p><p>John can’t help but laugh, both at the ridiculousness of that statement and the absolutely unsurprising fact that Sherlock could become a master chef after simply watching a few online videos. If he’d known that, John would have suggested it a long time ago. Baker Street could have done with some home cooking, amid cartons of takeaway and body parts.</p><p>“You are –“</p><p>“<em>Amazing</em>, I know” Sherlock smirks and looks up at him, the twinkle in his eye nothing to do with the glass of wine on the counter, and everything to do with the pride reflected on John’s face.</p><p>These moments have been more frequent of late. Since packing up their lives in London and moving to Sussex, Sherlock’s heart has bloomed like the crown of roses over their front door. It’s the little things John knew were always there but are now bold and obvious, proclaimed without hesitation. His own icy exterior has melted, too. Those difficult years are so far behind them that they only serve as a distant reminder of just how good things are now, how thankful he is for peace.</p><p>“Her Majesty is running a little late, sent me a text a few minutes ago”</p><p>Sherlock flicks an eyebrow up at this news, and John hums in agreement. Despite Rosie’s creative and adventurous nature, she is rarely late.</p><p>“Nothing wrong with the car?” The chef says, pouring a glass of red for John and handing it to him.</p><p>For Rosie’s eighteenth birthday a few months ago, Sherlock had suggested a car, and John had agreed it was the perfect gift. Their cottage is miles from the nearest station, and though neither man minds the journey, Rosie’s independent spirit had been fighting to get out on the open road ever since she passed her test. They found the ideal vehicle, a slightly battered forest green Land Rover that Sherlock had managed to get fixed up for free. Something about a favour owed, and John knew better than to bother asking about it. She had been delighted, squeezing the life out of them both, before hopping in with her muddy boots and heading for the nearest stretch of tarmac.</p><p>“Nope, just something about picking up a last minute gift”</p><p>John reaches down to move the bags he’s abandoned on the floor and his shoulder twinges rather obviously. Sherlock quickly takes the weight of them and clears a square of space on the counter, putting the bottles of cava into the fridge.</p><p>There’s a lot less running through the streets than there used to be. John rarely has to follow the taller man over railings or walls any more, their trips up to London becoming much less frequent. Yet his old wounds still seem to come back when the weather changes. He notices it in Sherlock too, those icy eyes crinkling with pain any time they have to give a particularly long chase. That bullet shaped scar still haunts them sometimes, the ghost of things long since behind them.</p><p>“Come here” Sherlock says, taking off his apron.</p><p>Rolling out his shoulder, John steps towards him and lets Sherlock wrap two hands around the back of his neck. He kisses him, slow and purposeful, the comfort of such a simple act instantly easing the pain away. John makes a pleased sound in the back of his throat and lets his forehead fall to Sherlock’s collarbone. They stand like that for a few moments, resting and savouring the safety of each other’s presence.</p><p>The sound of a loud car engine pulls them apart, smiles breaking out simultaneously as they hear the gravel outside crunch beneath large tyres. Sherlock turns the burners down to simmer on the range, and they both head out to greet her. Cold winter air hits John in the face quite pleasantly, as he watches his somehow grown up daughter walk up the driveway. She carries an armful of perfectly wrapped presents, giant bows and glittery ribbon a stark contrast to the grey dreary day.</p><p>“A little help!” She laughs, saved by Sherlock who manages to catch an errant parcel from the top of the pile.</p><p>Rosie places the rest of the gifts in the hallway, and immediately throws her arms around Sherlock, her large purple scarf almost suffocating him. John smiles, his jealousy for Sherlock’s place in his daughter’s ranks long ago forgotten. He could never contend with their instant bond, nor does he have any desire to do so anymore. Happiness comes from being an observer, he now realises, watching the two people he loves most in the world find joy in each other.</p><p>He eventually gets his hug, marvelling at how bright and well she looks. Annoyingly, Rosie is almost as tall as he is now, her hair smells like vanilla as it tickles his nose. There’s a suspicious air of excitement on her face, blue eyes sparkling in the artificial glow of light.</p><p>“There’s one more thing,” She starts, biting her lip in anticipation. “I really hope you like it, because it’s none-refundable I’m afraid”</p><p>John exchanges a look with Sherlock, who appears equally intrigued and worried. Rosie has a habit for surprises, something which has proven both delightful and catastrophic in the past. With that, she rushes back out to the Land Rover, and they both watch from the threshold, Sherlock’s hand on the small of John’s back.</p><p>“Oh my god” Sherlock breathes, watching as their final present emerges from the back seat, leaping onto the gravel below.</p><p>It’s a Weimaraner, if John’s not mistaken, doing its best to bound towards them, satin coat almost shimmering in the daylight. He knows his mouth is hanging open a little. Rosie looks between them both with a mischievous grin before letting go of the lead. The puppy sprints straight towards Sherlock, who crouches down with outstretched arms and nearly gets knocked backwards with the enthusiasm of uncontrollable limbs.</p><p>“He’s called Loki” Rosie announces, laughing as the aforementioned pup plants sloppy kisses all over Sherlock’s face.</p><p>John cocks an eyebrow at the name – God of mischief, indeed – and crouches down beside Sherlock to receive his own face wash. He can’t help smiling, despite the unexpectedness of being given a live and very energetic Christmas present. Glancing at Sherlock, he realises it may be her best surprise yet. The younger man’s eyes look glassy and joyful as if years have been taken off them.</p><p>“He’s perfect” Sherlock says, standing up to take Rosie in his arms once more. “Thank you, Rosie”</p><p>Loki attempts to stick his tongue up John’s nose and though he’s never been one for pets, he finds himself laughing and accepting the onslaught, not noticing the protest from his shoulder as the bundle of energy puts both paws up on him.</p><p>Rosie is smiling from ear to ear, clearly chuffed that her gift has been received so well. John wonders for a moment if her present has a secondary motivation. It’s no secret they have missed having his daughter around, the constant bustle of a child in the house a learning curve they both grew to enjoy and become dependant on. Soon she will be off to university, and if Rosie gets her first choice across the Scottish border, there will be miles and miles between them, not just a moderate drive up the motorway.</p><p>“Right, come on then children” John says, straightening up with some effort and taking Loki’s lead in his hand. “A feast awaits”</p><p>They head back inside, Sherlock’s arm thrown around Rosie’s shoulders as he directs her to the kitchen. The two of them finish off preparing the banquet while John entertains their new family member, tempting him away from the overly decorated Christmas tree with one of Sherlock’s slippers.</p><p>What Sherlock produces in the end is nothing short of the best Christmas dinner John has ever had. They eat until they can’t move, Loki sneaking one of Sherlock’s bacon wrapped sausages from his plate as he pours another glass of fizz for Rosie. She regales them with tales from college, how she painted and then proceeded to lift up the floorboards in the art room, presenting them as her final piece. It was a typically risky move, but she had walked away with top marks and a new respect (and perhaps fear, John thinks) from her tutors.  </p><p>The artist retires shortly before midnight, tired from her journey and the busy few weeks previous. She hugs them both goodnight, cheeks pink from the warming fire and festive booze. Loki stirs from his spot on the rug and decides John’s knee is a much better pillow. He helps the puppy up and into his lap, ignoring the smirk on Sherlock’s face as he regards the man who swore he’d never get a dog.</p><p>“So, what do you really think of our new friend?” Sherlock asks, gently swirling the brandy in his glass.</p><p>John leans into Sherlock’s hand as a palm reaches to the back of his neck, their armchairs no longer sat opposite each other but side by side, as close as possible.</p><p>“I suppose he can stay” Loki closes his eyes and nestles into John’s lap as if making his case.</p><p>Rosie has always had a knack for knowing what they need, even if they don’t realise it themselves. A new challenge will be good for them, and John’s already a little bit in love, though he’d never admit it. He strokes the sleeping pup’s ears absentmindedly, letting his eyes close as the comfort of home seeps into his bones.</p><p>Sherlock makes a satisfied sound, fingers gently stroking the hair at the nape of John’s neck. He touches John like he’s disappearing, nowadays. John supposes he is in some ways. They both are. Parts of themselves dissolving into memory to make room for the next season of their lives. Sitting by the fire, with the man he cannot live without, and the daughter he doesn’t deserve sleeping in the next room, it’s undeniable that things are changing. Slowing down, becoming settled and predictable.</p><p>John finds he does not mind it, one bit.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Interesting tidbit - Rosie's final art piece is actually inspired by someone from my class at uni. They lifted up half the floor in our art studios and presented it. Everyone thought they were mad, I personally thought they were a genius.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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